Points East: Of King and Capitols

Upper Maine left simple impressions –storms, highways, extensive lakes without moose, and clouds low enough to blot out any thought of seeing Katahdin. Starting from Mars Hill, its signature mountain’s wind turbines churning through the murky autumn weather, we traced the spine of Maine, which somehow missed most of its integral features.

King residence, Bangor

At Houlton, we joined I-95 on its sweeping journey to Kittery, passing both entrances to Baxter State Park, connections to the Allagash Waterway and other paths into the White Mountains. Not that we saw any of those features – driving fall rain and fog conspired to block any views beyond the changing leaves.

 The storm lifted at Bangor. As much as I hate celebrity tourism, I had to cave in. We passed the beautiful home of Stephen King, fenced by wrought iron that includes gargoyles atop fence posts and a gate with spider webs. Photographing the house is one of Bangor’s top visitor attractions, and it isn’t discouraged. Other tourists brazenly ran onto the lawn in front of the fence, but I could not. Whether King was home or away, I felt it better that we take our pictures quickly and move along.

The city of 30,000 had famous residents in past centuries, including some trivia question answers immortalized in copper statues (Hannibal Hamlin, Abe Lincoln’s first vice president). At the Bangor Wine & Cheese Co., we bought a few rare beers for the return trip. Nancy went with hibiscus-rich wild ale from Jolly Pumpkin, and I picked two sold only in that store from Friar’s Brewhouse, made by actual monks in Bucksport. The placid riverfront mall that cut through downtown Bangor was also a welcome break. The city was small but rich in cosmopolitan feel. Everything felt old, but nothing seemed dated.

Bangor streetscape

King’s house was not his only mark on Bangor. The fictional city of Derry, a key location in many King stories, followed Bangor as a model. It was not a stretch to see his protagonists walking up the hill from downtown to its neighborhoods, or something sinister lurking in the sewers. Although we did not visit the Thomas Hill Standpipe or Bangor’s notoriously huge airport runway, they also figured into novels such as It and Insomnia. Bangor’s unique qualities in many ways shape it into the perfect setting for King’s macabre tales. Further southwest, another small city would cast a different spell.

Augusta had a strong small town feel – the state capitol and the Blaine House just happened to be located there. It avoided the dumpy and rundown atmospheres that afflict some smaller state capitols. It bore certain similarities to other small capitals like Montpelier or Helena. An attractive riverfront and well-kept streets made it a place worth stopping. The skies cleared and the winds sped up as we circled the state house. The capitol trees radiated with the orange and red leaves.

Across the street from the capitol sat the Blaine House, the home of Maine’s governors since 1921, although the house dates back to 1833 and was home to former U.S. House Speak and losing presidential candidate James Blaine. Leaving the capitol, I had to hand the keys to Nancy. At Augusta, in the shadow of Maine’s statehouse, I gave up driving for this trip.

After the state house, we lunched on delicious sandwiches at Bay Wraps, in sight of the Kennebec River. The synergy of coastal and inland Maine lies in its bodies of waters. Days earlier, we walked Popham Beach at the Kennebec’s mouth. At Augusta, we ate lunch at the Kennebec’s head of tide, the farthest point upriver where the Bay of Maine still influences the river waters.

After lunch, our missed opportunities for ice cream ended at one of Maine’s four remaining Friendly’s. I had not had Friendly’s ice cream since junior high.

First time at Friendly's

Growing up in Dallas, Nancy was outside Friendly’s reach. They used to be everywhere during my childhood, and on many a summer evening we would wait in line for cold treats from the service window on Friendly’s patio. Now you can map out empty and former locations across New England, the rest of the Northeast and Ohio.

Racing the encroachment of rush hour and fading afternoon, we reserved a hotel in Bedford, just miles from the Manchester airport. We crossed the massive I-95 bridge tying Maine and New Hampshire, then cut into the traffic of Manchester. Outside a small, artificial-feeling commercial strip, the road rose to meet the Hill Brook Motel.

Largest room of the trip.

Here we entered our biggest room of the trip. The suite carved out a living room of comfortable furniture that had endured many decades of travelers. Tired of any roads, we went with Chinese takeout and faded before the motel booked all its rooms for the night.

 With the afternoon departure of Manchester's airport, we had full morning of New Hampshire ahead.

Not enough time remained to a Vermont journey, but New Hampshire had plenty to occupy us. After marveling at an ancient soda machine next to our room (the Canada Dry button deliver what it advertised), we loaded up for Concord.

Glad to know these still exist

Passing the old brick mills in Manchester, we followed the Merrimack River up to the state capitol. A perfect array of fall colors speckled Concord. The state capitol was set back on North Main Street, the golden dome brilliant on this sunny morning. The air felt great, even with a little chill running through it.

The oldest continually occupied state capitol (since 1819), the grounds included statues of Daniel Webster, Franklin Pierce (New Hampshire’s only president), and the senator who got flogging banned in the U.S. Navy (John Hale, a leading abolitionist). After quick walk through town and a bagel at a Main Street coffeehouse, we grabbed a picnic bench yards from the capitol building to write postcards.

Gesturing like John Hale at the Capitol

Immediately next to the capitol, a thriving farmers market filled the street. Wares range from root vegetables to vegan whoopee pies to nanobrewery beer (Canterbury Aleworks), the latter two we got for the trip home.

We headed north a little on I-93, detouring through the Lake Winnipesaukee region, hoping to glimpse Mount Washington and the other tall peaks of the White Mountains. We only got glances through the fall foliage and the lumbering weekender RVs clogging the lake region’s roads. Here the leaves showed their richest hues. The dense forests covering New Hampshire’s rolling hills. Our attempts to cut over to Lake Winnipesaukee ran into weekenders from southern New England.

 Too many RVs forced us to head south before we could get a distant look at Mount Washington and the Presidential Peaks. Despite all we packed into eight days, we would have to add the White Mountains to our laundry list of stops for our next Northern New England tour.

Writing postcards feet from NH state capitol